


Best Friends Have The Best Benefits

by Sarah_Vincent1506



Series: AskPolyLosersClub Oneshots [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, NSFW, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Shameless Smut, okay maybe a tiny bit of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 00:38:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13601847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Vincent1506/pseuds/Sarah_Vincent1506
Summary: Richie and Stan go on a date.College-age Losers' Club.Oneshot, paired with the askpolylosersclub ask blog on Tumblr, in which the Losers are in a polyamorous relationship.





	Best Friends Have The Best Benefits

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah...sorry to anyone who has been waiting for the next chapter of my main fic, but...this is what I've been doing instead...  
> Sometimes, you just gotta write some Stozier. Here's the link to the ask blog this fic is paired with, for anyone who's interested and hasn't seen it already: https://askpolylosersclub.tumblr.com/

Richie Tozier is feeling particularly hard-up.

 

It’s the kind of impatient, persistent lust you just can’t ignore. The kind that won’t eventually fizzle out on its own, no matter how it’s neglected. The kind that a quick, self-executed hand-job, or ‘selfie’, as Richie likes to call them, can’t possibly fully satisfy. The kind that burns deep and intense in the pit of your gut until it almost feels like pain. That kind of hard-up.

 

And he only has Stanley Uris to blame.

 

Well, this was always going to be the end result, they both knew that from the beginning. Because all of Stan and Richie’s dates end this way, no matter where, no matter when, no matter how. At some point, there’s going to be a good, hard fuck. There’s going to be rough, aimless groping, that never needs an aim, because they know one another’s bodies better than their own. There’s going to be a kiss, or two, or seven, any combination of fierce and painful, like shameless enemies, to soft and tender, like soul-bound lovers, memorising the tiny cracks and contours of their intertwined lips. There’s going to be a collision of slender, pale, sweaty bodies, a tangle of curly hair, both light and dark, murmurs of pleasure laced with snide remarks and witty insults that have been honed to well-informed perfection over fifteen years of association, and beyond. A shared intimacy that transcends friendship, a love like no other. Reluctant soulmates.

 

And it’s going to be fucking amazing.

 

This time is no different. They start off in some high-brow, fancy restaurant, always Stan’s choice, of course; if he’s gonna get his rocks off in a public bathroom, he won’t just settle for a Chik-Fil-A or a KFC (those probably would have been Richie’s first choices). Oh, no. Stan prefers his dirty, exhibitionist trysts to be a little more elegant, preferably five-star. The kind of place where its patrons would actually be surprised to walk in on two young, attractive men going at it up against the heated towel rail (Richie swears this is why he and Stan were banned from one of the nicest French restaurants in Manhattan, although, Stan maintains that it was because Richie wouldn’t stop doing racist impressions of their waiter in a highly-offensive, and, as he frequently emphasises, _poor_ attempt at a French accent.)

 

At least Stan always pays.

 

A free, fancy dinner, and sex with Stan. Richie’s definitely not gonna complain.

 

Now, it’s an Italian place Richie can’t pronounce the name of, not that that has stopped him from saying it as often as possible, enunciating it in a different manner every time, in an attempt at making Stan laugh.

 

It hasn’t worked.

 

That doesn’t matter, though. Because Stan’s been making eyes at him across the table for the duration of the meal. The kind of eyes that Richie knows all too well. The kind of eyes that tell a story, without the lips they share a face with ever moving at all. Richie has gotten pretty damn good at reading the messages in Stan’s eyes, by now. He supposes that’s no surprise, considering the fact that they’ve been friends since before either of them could form a coherent sentence. Well, certainly since before Richie could. Stan, on the other hand, likely came out of the womb already well-equipped to debate mathematical theorems, metaphors in poetry, and his favourite classic literature.

 

Richie isn’t usually much into reading, but he’s into Stan, for sure.

 

Especially when Stan is wearing those damn grey trousers, the ones that give the word ‘fitted’ a whole new meaning. They’re made by an Italian designer, Richie knows that much, because Stan never fails to remind him of how expensive they are, every time Richie holds a drink anywhere near him, or stands a bit too close. He vaguely wonders why Stan always decides to wear such nice clothes when he’s going out with Richie, of all people, when they both know exactly what the end result will be. But that’s just Stan; Richie wouldn’t be surprised if he came out of the womb wearing a Prada suit, too. He envisions a new-born baby, with a tiny curl of golden hair on the top of its head, wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase, still covered in birth-juice (whatever the crap that stuff’s called), and chastising the doctor because there’s a piece of placenta stuck to his lapel. Richie sniggers to himself, as he watches Stan eyeing him across the table, while they’re waiting for the bill.

 

Stan is wearing a watch that probably cost at least triple the accumulative value of everything Richie is wearing, and its glass face glistens beneath the lights as he takes a sip of his drink. Stan has been nursing the same glass of wine all night; he’s not much of a drinker, and even when he is, Stan doesn’t drink when the end-goal is sex, likes to keep a level-head. Richie thinks about the watch for a while, distracted by the minute movements of the silver second hand (Stan would never wear a watch with gold accents when his trousers are grey), and then shifts his gaze up Stan’s skinny wrist to the cuff of a white shirt that’s so crisp it probably stays that shape even when it’s not on a body. Even though it’s completely unnecessary, Richie likes that Stan dresses up for dates, likes the fact that Stan dresses up for everything. Because regardless of the fact that Stan looks fucking incredible, all of the time, it also makes Richie feel kind of like a scruffy, reckless delinquent, about to completely wreck and debase the perfect, uptight son of a rich businessman (The son of a Rabbi works just as well, if not better, for Richie’s deluded fantasy of Stan’s non-existent virginal purity, but he’s pretty damn sure that Stan would disagree; there are plenty of reasons he never wears a kippah when he’s expecting sex, and its connection to his father is only one of them.) Or maybe they’re like the scoundrel and the princess. Like Han Solo and Princess Leia. At least, Richie fucking _wishes_ he’d be the Han Solo of their group, in a Star Wars scenario, but, in reality, he knows he’d be C3PO, the annoying, comedy side character who you can’t stand, but you also know the movie wouldn’t quite be the same without them. Although, C3PO tearing the clothes off of Princess Leia and ravishing her, turns it into a completely different fantasy.

 

Not that that matters.

 

Because Stan’s giving him those _fuck me_ eyes, now, and holy shit, is he gonna.

 

Stan just has this way of painting a picture for you, without ever having to speak. He has already worked Richie up to a semi during the meal, just by flashing those fucking eyes at him all night, and he’s gonna be fully hard before they stand up, if this continues. Richie’s trousers aren’t nearly as tight as Stan’s, but that doesn’t change the fact that Richie is completely at his mercy, and Stan has this fucking insane, slightly terrifying control over his own body, that somehow magically prevents him from popping a boner in uncomfortable scenarios. ‘Stoic’ isn’t even the word for it. Never play a game of chicken with Stanley Uris, because he’s gonna win, and he’ll probably humiliate and berate you on your way down, for good measure.

 

Stan’s still making eye contact as he slides the tip of his finger slowly down the stem of his glass, catching a bead of condensation that’s languidly descending to the base, and then stroking that moistened finger all the way back up again, around the curve, and onto the rim, which he then traces back and forth. Richie has no clue how anyone could give a fucking hand-job to a piece of glassware, but damn if Stan hasn’t just succeeded. Richie’s genuinely surprised that the remainder of Stan’s wine didn’t just come shooting out and over the side, just at the lightest touch of those deft fingers. _Shit_ , Stan knows what to do with his hands. That’s at the forefront of Richie’s gradually clouding mind, as he watches Stan’s eyes, and they seem to say, ‘this could be you’ _._ ‘What if I was touching _you_ like this?’ Stan’s still rubbing the tip of his finger in small, but intentionally obvious movements on that tiny section of the lip of the glass, and Richie feels a throb of arousal in his groin as he shifts in his seat. Why can he almost _fucking_ feel that? His eyes are locked onto Stan’s fingers, now, wishing to any and every holy being that may or may not exist that that was the tip of his-

 

“Your bill, Sir.”

 

Richie’s really glad for Stan’s level-headedness, now, because if he hadn’t have answered, with a very calm, and elegant, ‘thank you’, then the waiter may have had to speak to Richie, and he’s not sure that saying the word ‘penis’ to the wait-staff as they hand you your bill, counts as acceptable restaurant etiquette.

 

Stan smiles politely, and his eyes linger on the handsome, tan face of ‘Romeo’ (his name badge actually says ‘Romano’) the Italian waiter, far too long for Richie’s liking. Stan knows this, though, of course; openly flirting with good-looking strangers is one of Stan’s favourite games. He’s beautiful, charming, seductive…and he knows it. And encouraging possessive, and occasionally aggressive behaviours in his six _actual_ lovers, really seems to put Stan in the mood. It works incredibly well on Bill. Eddie, too. Even Ben has been known to have been lured into roping a protective arm around Stan’s shoulders, or his waist. Richie, though, is normally too laid-back for such enthusiastic jealousy. And he’s not one to be so easily beaten at a game, no matter what the kind.

 

 ‘Okay. So that’s what we’re doing, now, huh?’ Richie thinks, as he watches Stan opening up the folding leather case on his phone, where he keeps his credit cards, still maintaining brazen eye-contact with the waiter, ‘Well, two can play at that, Stanley.’

 

“Hey, I’ve got this one.” Richie announces, loudly, fumbling in his pocket, and withdrawing a couple of crumpled fifties, “Keep the change.” He winks completely unashamedly at the waiter as he slides the money across the table, like he’s making some sort of dodgy drug deal. He makes a point of eyeing the guy up and down, and he doesn’t bother attempting to make it subtle, the way Stan would. From the corner of his eye, he sees Stan watching him like a hawk, and although Stan has the best poker face the world has probably ever seen, there’s nothing he can hide from Richie.

 

He’s pissed.

 

It’s lucky, really, that Stan’s the only one of them petty enough to pointedly flirt with someone else in front of the others, because out of all seven, Stan is _definitely_ the jealous one. Richie can see in his expression, that although Stan knows Richie’s not _really_ checking out the waiter, and that this is all part of the same, twisted game they always play, the thought of Richie being even remotely interested in anyone else, makes his blood boil.

 

 _Checkmate_.

 

Richie may not be as financially successful or organised as Stan, not by a long shot (He doesn’t even own a wallet), but, he has been doing a few stand-up gigs at college functions, and recently he even made a paid appearance at a popular local bar, so he no longer has to feel that guilty twist in his stomach every time someone else pays for a date. Even a Stan date is no longer out of his reach.

 

It feels good.

 

The look on Stan’s face, feels even better, as the waiter thanks them, straightens out the notes, and wishes them a ‘good evening’. But when he returns with the receipt, and a few complementary mints, on a tiny, silver tray, he’s holding a little folded piece of paper between his fingers, and he very casually slides it under the base of Stan’s wine glass before he leaves. Stan doesn’t look up at him, though. His eyes are trained on Richie, as he opens up the paper to reveal the phone number written on the inside. He lays it out on the table between them, like the winning hand in a game of poker, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips.

 

“Damn it.” Richie scoffs, adjusting his glasses at the edge. Stan frequently comments on the state of Richie’s glasses, says that if he had them fitted properly, they wouldn’t keep sliding down his nose.

 

Stan doesn’t say anything, this time, though, just continues to watch him, with that smug expression on his face, as he finishes the rest of his drink.

 

“And here, I thought I looked pretty good tonight,” Richie sniggers, tugging at the collar of his shirt; it’s a black one, fairly new, and only a little creased. He managed a pair of black trousers, too, and some dressy shoes, although they may or may not be a vibrant shade of purple. All-in-all, he’s dressed well enough that Stan didn’t force him to change before they went out, as he often does. Richie failed to mention the fact that Eddie told him exactly what to wear, and that he did, in fact, basically dress him, and force a comb through his unruly hair, before he allowed him to go anywhere.

 

“You do.” Stan responds, bluntly.

 

Richie is a little stunned. A compliment from Stan is rare. And one that isn’t laced with a sarcastic comment, or followed by a haughty, ‘however’, is even rarer.

 

“You think I look good?” Richie feels giddy.

 

Stan nods smoothly, “Of course.”

 

“‘Of course?’ You’d better be careful, Stanley, you’re gonna give me a big… _head_.”

 

“Don’t ruin it.”

 

“I’m gonna ruin _you._ ”

 

“We’ll see.”

 

“Is that a challenge?”

 

“Definitely.”

 

“Shall we?”

 

“Don’t follow me right away.”

 

Stan rises from his seat neatly, straightening out his trousers and tucking in his chair, looking as casual as though this were just the end of an ordinary dinner, and they weren’t about to do something that’s both rather vulgar, and technically illegal, minutes later. There’s no doubt about it, though, they both enjoy the thrill.

 

As a final, parting display of his unwavering devotion to Richie, and only Richie, on this particular evening, at least, Stan tears up the phone number of the handsome, Italian waiter, slowly shredding it into tidy little squares, before sprinkling the confetti into Richie’s soda.

 

Richie watches him leave, all the way across the restaurant, like an obedient pet awaiting his master’s command.

 

He checks around, makes sure no one is taking any notice, and then follows.

 

The restroom of this place is nice. _Really_ nice. Spotlessly clean, well-decorated, adorned with flowers. The kind of upper-class that means they have bottles of fancy lotion beside the hand-wash, and the toilet paper is sometimes folded into a point. At this stage, Richie’s almost positive that Stan chooses restaurants purely based upon how nice the bathrooms are.

 

There are four cubicles, with tall doors, made out of dark, polished wood, and only one of them appears to be occupied. Richie raps on it with his knuckles, as he leans against its edge.

 

“Hey, Stanley, you takin’ a shit? That’s kinda gross, man, right when we’re about to have sex? I at least hope you’re gonna douche-”

 

The door opens inward, then, as Stan pulls it with the polished toe of his shoe. He’s sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, arms folded against his chest, looking rather unamused.

 

“Shut up, and get in here.”

 

“Well, honey, I thought ya’d never ask.”

 

“Don’t do a voice.”

 

Richie sniggers as he squeezes past the door into the cubicle.

 

Stan pushes it closed with his foot.

 

Richie locks it.

 

There’s no time wasted, after that, to debate the way this is going to go. There never is. There doesn’t need to be. They know each other better than anyone else. Right from the beginning, sex between Richie and Stan has never been awkward, or timid, or bumpy. Not in the slightest. It’s this fluid, easy, tantric thing, that has never needed to be practiced, or to be worked on, or talked about. And they can keep it up for hours.

 

They often do.

 

Stan stays seated, as he uses the front of Richie’s shirt to pull him closer, until Richie’s long legs are either side of him, and Stan’s eager mouth is inches from the uncomfortable tent in Richie’s trousers.

 

“You’re so easy,” Stan teases quietly, his voice laden with sensual venom as he draws the tips of his fingers hard around the outline of the length of Richie’s cock through his pants. Up and down, either side, over and over, never actually touching what Richie wants him to touch, but causing enough friction through the material that Richie can feel these barely-there, torturous little shocks of pleasure pulsing up his spine.

 

Stan isn’t much of a talker, in sexual scenarios. At least, not when he’s on the receiving end. He doesn’t like giving his partner the satisfaction. When he’s feeling dominant, though, that’s a different story, altogether. He’s simultaneously the worst and best kind of tease. He’ll rile you up until you’re at breaking point, until you’re ready to plead with him, because that’s what Stan likes most.

 

And he’s really fucking good at it.

 

Something Stan is also good at, is knowing exactly what his partner likes, and using it against them. And Richie…well, Richie fucking _loves_ dirty talk.

 

That’s not such an easy kink to work with, when you’re in a public restroom, though.

 

They maintain eye contact as they hear someone enter the room, and go into the next cubicle. Stan is in his element, though. Because Richie has a _really_ hard time being quiet, and it’s something Stan takes a lot of sick pleasure in, when they’re in public. He cups his hand, tucks it firmly between Richie’s thighs, rubbing, kneading, squeezing, keeping the attention as far from the length or the tip of his dick as possible, away from where Richie is most sensitive, right where he fucking wants him to be. It doesn’t matter, though, because Richie’s getting harder by the second, anyway, and he’s leaning over Stan, against the back wall, and breathing slowly, doing his very best not to say aloud any of the hundreds of strange and disgusting things that are pulsing through his brain simultaneously.

 

Thankfully, it sounds like the guy next to them is only taking a quick piss, because Richie has very limited control over his own mouth, and now Stan is _really_ rubbing at him, slowly, up and down the solid length, watching Richie’s face like he’s daring him to make a sound. He thumbs at the tip, just barely, grazes it with a neat, blunt nail through the fabric, eyes glistening when Richie visibly shudders, and then starts working at the length again.

 

They hear a toilet flush, a cubicle door unlock, and then the sound of a tap being turned on, as Stan untucks Richie’s shirt from his trousers, neatly unfastening the bottom three buttons. Then he’s kissing softly at the flat expanse of Richie’s stomach, and his hips, around onto his waist, and then back again, tracing his fingertip up and down through the line of fine, dark hair leading down to the waistband of his pants. There’s a gentle hitch in Richie’s breath, but it’s barely audible, as he watches the top of Stan’s curly head pressed in close against his body. Stan’s kisses become longer, wetter, involve the graze of his teeth against Richie’s pale flesh as he sucks a hickey into one of his hipbones. Richie allows a gentle hiss to escape between his lips when they hear the hand-drier, and the noise is more than enough to conceal it.

 

Then Stan’s rubbing him through his pants again, and the second they hear the restroom door click shut, Richie curses aloud. Stan’s working him a little faster through the fabric, now, and Richie knows he could just come in his pants, like this…Stan has done it to him, before, and he’s sure it won’t be the last time.

 

Today was not a good day to go commando.

 

“You’re such a fucking cock-tease,” Richie taunts, and Stan glances up at him, pressing down hard with his thumb on the head of Richie’s still-clothed erection, rubbing nice and rough.

 

Richie lets out a heavy, slightly startled breath.

 

“Unfasten your shirt.”

 

Richie’s fingers fumble a little at his collar as he follows the command, unbuttoning everything Stan left behind before, and all the while, Stan continues to fondle the head of his cock through his clothes, until there’s pre-come leaking through the fabric, and Richie lets out a barely-concealed groan.

 

“Fuck, c’mon, Stanley.”

 

“You can do better than that.”

 

Richie knows exactly what Stan wants to hear…

 

“ _Please_.”

 

Luckily, Richie’s not ashamed to beg. Especially not when his dick is fucking throbbing against the cloth of his pants, which suddenly feel much tighter than he remembers them being, when he first put them on.

 

“ _Please, Stan.”_

 

Stan still doesn’t relieve him of them, yet, though, instead getting two fingers firmly on that ridiculously sensitive vein right beneath the head of his cock, massaging it in these impossibly good, tiny movements, that are actually making his legs start to feel weak.

 

“Oh, _fuck,_ I wanna come.”

 

“Already?” There’s definite amusement in Stan’s voice, along with some minor irritation, “We’ve barely even started.”

 

“I can’t help it, you’ve got-”

 

Richie goes silent when they hear the door swing open, again, but Stan just keeps fucking going. Richie’s got his face buried into the crook of his elbow against the wall, now, and he can feel Stan’s silk-like hair against his bare stomach, and his fingers still stroking him in that oh-so-good little place, and Stan’s other hand is smoothing its way around his waist onto the base of his back, holding him close, and it’s just all so fucking _good_.

 

He can feel an orgasm already building in the pit of his abdomen, and he’d be worried, if it weren’t for the fact that he knows exactly what Stan is going to do. Because he’s going to do the same thing Stan _always_ does, which is to bring him right to the edge of a climax, right at the start, and then keep him there, for the remainder of their time together, pushing him to that same edge, over and over and over, and then stopping just short, trapping him in this amazing, terrible limbo. Edging is, after all, Stan’s specialty, but at least with Richie, there’s often some leeway. He might let him come, once or twice, and just keep working him back up again. Before he met Stan, Richie never even knew that men could _have_ more than one orgasm per ‘session’. Turns out Richie has a pretty short refractory period, too. Stan seems to enjoy that even more than Richie does.

 

Richie feels Stan’s fingers slow, and he tilts his head so that he can watch him. And he’s glad that he did, when Stan tugs him closer, and leans in to catch the bead of pre-come that’s forming on Richie’s trousers, with the tip of his tongue. Richie groans, pretty loudly, too, before he remembers the fact that there’s someone else in the restroom with them, and quickly transforms it into a cough.

 

He can practically _feel_ Stan smirking.

 

This new guy stays longer than the last one. Long enough that he’s still there after Stan has finished with Richie’s belt, his button, and his zipper. Long enough that Stan has _finally_ freed Richie’s aching erection from the hot, sticky confines of his trousers. Long enough that by the time they hear the outer door swing shut again, Richie is in Stan’s mouth, deep enough that he can feel the back of Stan’s throat pressing around the head of his erection.

 

It’s taking everything in Richie’s power not to fist both hands into Stan’s hair, at the very least, just for something to grip onto, as he lets out a loud, uninhibited moan. Richie might get off on people pulling and manhandling his hair, but Stan certainly does not. In fact, you’re really fucking privileged if you ever get to touch Stan’s hair, at all. Very rarely, he’ll allow you to hold onto it, if you’re giving it to him good from behind, but in Richie’s experience, even then, he prefers being held by his shoulder, or his neck. Stan is very protective over his hair, and Richie can clearly see why, as he looks down, and watches those beautiful, golden brown coils pressed up against his lower abdomen. That doesn’t stop the urge to grab at them, though, so he settles for some very cautious, and very gentle petting, brushing some of the curls away from Stan’s forehead and out of his eyes, and holding them back, twisting one ever-so-gently around his smallest finger.

 

“ _Fuck, Stan_.”

 

A blowjob from Stan is a fairly rare experience, and an intense one, at that. Really, most experiences with Stan are intense, but this, in particular, is something special. See, Stan’s not as naturally talented as Bill (the resident blow-job King, with a non-existent gag-reflex), he doesn’t have Bev’s playful allure, or a mouth quite as soft as Eddie’s (if getting head from Stan is rare, getting it from Eddie is like winning the lottery), but Stan has a level of knowledgeable skill that is unrivalled, and an inherent sensuality about him that is equally unmatched.

 

There’s never much movement, when you’re getting head from Stan; he works mostly with his tongue. But the feeling of being held deep in a warm, wet mouth, while being pleasured by an insanely talented tongue, is _heaven_.

 

“ _Shit, that feels so good._ ” Richie hisses quietly.

 

One of Richie’s hands is still against the top of Stan’s head, close to his own stomach. With his other, he strokes the side of Stan’s face, feeling skinny, rough fingers across firm, unblemished skin. His breath comes shaky and uneven as Stan’s tongue finds it way to parts of Richie he didn’t even know were so receptive, himself, a slow, deep, _burning_ pleasure building in his groin.

 

“ _Fuck…”_

 

With the pads of his fingers, he finds the tiny, faded scars at the very edge of Stan’s face, tracing them, committing them to memory, once more. Richie knows that there are seventeen, in all. He could tell you the exact location of each one, too. Stan hates them, and Richie feels the tension in his jaw at having them touched, but Richie loves them, just as everyone else does. In fact, Richie thinks they’re strangely adorable, but he’s sure that if he said that aloud, Stan would never forgive him. He knows he’s walking on thin ice, already,, so instead, his hand drifts to Stan’s jaw, following the taut, sculpted line of it with his thumb, and letting out a low moan when Stan rewards him by swallowing hard, the muscles in his throat in particular, contracting and pressing tight against his shaft.

 

“ _Oh, fuck…Again. Do that again.”_

 

Richie feels a gentle hum of amusement from the back of Stan’s throat, but he doesn’t do it again.

 

“ _C’mon, Stanny, please.”_

Stan’s fingers dig gently into Richie’s bare hips, and his tongue laves across that hyper-sensitive vein.

 

“ _Oh, fuck_ …” Richie’s fingers tighten a little in Stan’s hair, but he hears a short, sharp exhale that’s definitely a warning, and he loosens them again quickly, “ _Stan, please. Please_.” Richie can feel those embers of bliss in his gut building into a fire. If Stan would just give him a little more, he could come, “ _Please. Stan. I’m getting close…please just gimme something…I’ll be good to you I’ll be so fucking good to you…_ ”

 

Stan starts rubbing against that spot, now, with the tip of his tongue, just slowly, until Richie’s almost doubled over above him, fingers shaking in Stan’s curls as he fights the impulse to grab harder. His breath is coming out shaky and loud, and he’s cursing over and over as quietly as possible.

 

“ _Oh god…holy shit I fucking love you._ ”

 

Richie hears, and feels, Stan exhale in amusement.

 

“ _Oh…seriously have I ever told you...you’re my favourite?_ ”

 

Stan withdraws his lips to the tip, now, and then slides back down slowly.

 

“ _Oh, fuck…yes.”_

Stan pulls back again, only this time, he comes all the way off, rubbing his thumb absent-mindedly back and forth across the underside of Richie’s erection as he looks up at him. His lips are slightly wet, and pink, but he still looks so elegant and collected; Richie has no idea how he does it.

 

“Stop talking. Someone’s going to hear you,” he hisses quietly.

 

“No no no don’t stop…I can’t help it, it just comes out.”

 

“Nothing else _will_ be coming out, unless you keep quiet.”

 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Richie babbles quickly, eager to get Stan’s mouth back on him, “I’ll be a good boy, I promise. I’ll be so good…please. _Please, Stan._ ”

 

Richie presses as gently as he can on the back of Stan’s head, and dares to inch his hips forward, too. He’s worried he’s really pushing his luck, but Stan seems to be in a good mood, because he reaches his hands up onto Richie’s hips, firmly, and gives him a little permissive tug. Richie knows what that means. Stan’s not only allowing, but encouraging him to push back in, so he does. Stan helps guide the movement by parting his lips just enough that Richie can slide himself between them, until he’s fully buried in his mouth again. This time, Richie fights the urge to speak, and instead, his voice comes out in a weak, slightly effeminate whimper.

 

He feels the lightest shudder through Stan’s fingertips, where they connect to his bare hips, and Richie bravely runs both hands through Stan’s hair, now, holding it gently, because he knows what’s coming next. And he’s right. This time, Stan pushes at Richie’s hips, so that he starts to draw back out of his mouth, and then pulls, so that he gently presses back in again. He guides those same movements by hand, once more, twice, until Richie is controlling them himself, gently rocking back and forth between Stan’s wet lips.

 

Richie hisses and groans softly every few thrusts, wanting more than anything to just let loose and fuck into his mouth hard and fast, but Stan is ultimately still in control, digs his fingers into Richie’s flesh every time he tries to speed up, and drags him back into that same, slow rhythm. God, it’s the _best_ kind of torture.

 

“ _Stan…Stan oh fuck that’s so fucking good.”_

 

This time, they hear two men enter the restroom, friends, maybe colleagues, based upon their conversation, chatting between themselves as they occupy the stalls either side of the one Richie and Stan are in. Richie knows Stan chose this one on purpose. He could have chosen the one at the end, which is far less conspicuous, but, _no_ , Stan had to choose the riskiest one, the one that feels the most ‘exciting’.

 

Richie doesn’t stop, though, holds one of his hands tight over his mouth as he continues to rock his hips forward, in and out of Stan’s perfect, warm, wet mouth, over and over and over, until he’s almost crying with the urge to vocalise his pleasure, to moan or praise or beg, to just say _anything_. Every time Richie so much as breathes too heavily, Stan’s thumbs press hard into his skin, in warning, but that’s only turning him on _more_.

 

By the time they hear the two men washing their hands, talking at the sinks, Richie’s so close he’s shaking. He accidentally lets slip a strangled, desperate groan from the back of his throat, but it’s quiet enough that only he and Stan can hear it. Stan’s gaze flashes upwards, but he knows Richie’s close, and rather than appearing mad, he looks wanton and somewhat infatuated, urging Richie to the edge.

 

Richie feels Stan press his tongue upwards, tightening the space he’s sliding into, and their eyes lock in a heated stare for that couple of seconds before Richie comes hard into Stan’s mouth, on an inward thrust. Stan’s eyes close briefly, his lips loosen, and Richie knows he’s trying not to gag, but while Richie makes to pull back, and rests his hands either side of Stan’s face gently, Stan seems to have the opposite idea, tightening his hold on Richie’s hips, and encouraging him to ride out the last of his orgasm against his tongue.

 

The second they hear that door swing closed, and they’re alone again, Richie lets out this sudden, heavy breath, as though he’d been holding it in, quietly whimpers the word ‘fuck’, five or six times in quick succession, and strokes his thumb affectionately against the side of Stan’s face, as he rubs out the remainder of his climax.

 

When Stan finally pulls his mouth free, and allows his parted, slightly swollen lips to graze the sensitive head of Richie’s waning erection, Richie can see the creamy, white liquid pooled on Stan’s tongue. He expects him to spit it into the toilet, or maybe just to swallow (Stan’s definitely not averse to that), but instead, he stands up, backs Richie against the wall of the cubicle, curves both slender hands around his neck, and kisses him slowly.

 

Richie can feel the warm, thick substance running into his own mouth, salty, musty, bitter. It doesn’t really taste bad, Richie doesn’t think it ever does. As far as he’s concerned, it just tastes the way sweaty skin does, and he has the combined experience of four different guys to refer to. This isn’t the first time he’s ever tasted his own, either, so he supposes that makes five, and he’s sure he’ll get Ben, eventually.

 

Stan’s not much of a kisser.

 

Not that he isn’t good at it, because Stan is almost infuriatingly good at everything, but just because he doesn’t really care for kissing. But when you do get kissed by Stan, you fucking know it. His kisses are always tender, and passionate, but Stan’s a biter. Tongue, lips, jaw, whatever his mouth comes into contact with, is likely to feel his teeth, too. He nibbles at Richie’s bottom lip, now, tugs it between his teeth, sucks it until it feels a little raw, and as a final, parting shot, he spits the remainder of Richie’s own ejaculate into his open mouth.

 

“ _Shit.”_

 

Richie swallows and tucks himself back into his trousers, panting, feeling a little light-headed as he watches Stan take off his jacket and hang it neatly onto the hook on the back of the door. His tie comes next, and Richie jumps straight back into action to help him with it, although how much he’s actually _helping_ is debatable. Stan drapes his tie with his jacket, and makes to unfasten the collar of his shirt, but Richie gets there first this time, flipping Stan against the cubicle wall with a notable _thud_ and kissing at his jaw repeatedly as he fumbles with the buttons. He kisses up to his ear, sucks at the lobe, and sticks his tongue in until Stan swats him away.

 

“I _hate_ it when you do that.”

 

Richie laughs.

 

“I know.”

 

Richie can’t help the playful smirk on his lips as he follows his hands with his mouth, tasting every new bit of skin he exposes. He feels Stan’s fingers, both hands, slide into his hair, as he kisses his way down the side of his face, pecks at his lips, his chin, before reaching the pale, beautiful column of Stan’s neck, and touching every inch of it with his mouth and his tongue. _Fuck_ , he wants to leave a mark, here, right in the crook of it, for everyone to see, but he knows Stan won’t let him; he doesn’t like visible hickeys, even though he’s quite happy to leave them on other people.

 

“You’re so _fucking_ hot,” Richie mumbles against Stan’s skin, as he leaves a line of wet kisses down the centre of his chest, and his stomach, slowly lowering himself onto one knee. He sees the goose pimples erupt across Stan’s firm abdomen, and the now-prominent outline of an erection in his stupidly tight trousers, and he can’t help but feel smug about it. If there’s one thing that really works on Stan more than he’d care to admit, it’s being adored, _worshipped_.

 

Stan lifts one expensive, polished shoe, and rests it against Richie’s raised knee, and Richie unfastens the thin laces, like a footman, as he watches Stan undo the buckle of his Prada belt. The contrast between them is so ridiculous; Stan, with his designer clothes, his flawless skin, his sculpted features, and his perfectly styled curls, versus Richie, who’s wearing thrift store shoes, and a pair of black trousers he has reserved for funerals, skin blemished with freckles and scars, glasses with possibly the thickest lenses possible, and hair…well, Richie’s hair remains a mystery, even to himself. It’s like a living, sentient beast.

 

He removes Stan’s shoe at the heel, placing it carefully on the floor, because he knows he’ll be in trouble if he doesn’t, and then Stan swaps over, rests his other foot against his thigh, so that Richie can take that one off, too.

 

“What am I, your butler?” Richie snickers, as he puts the other shoe down.

 

“I prefer _slave_.” Stan slides his belt out of the loops on his trousers slowly, hooking it up with his other clothes.

 

“Like a sex slave?” Richie reaches up to unfasten Stan’s trousers, now.

 

“Well, you’re not useful for anything else.”

 

Richie looks up at Stan’s face, then, and there’s a soft, amused smile at his lips, that makes Richie laugh aloud.

 

“But you think I’m good at sex?” He teases, as he slides Stan’s trousers down off his hips, tugging them free from his legs, too, before passing them up to him, so that Stan can hang them with the others. If it had been Richie’s trousers, they’d have gone straight onto the floor, but there’s probably a special ward in the closest hospital reserved for people who throw Stan’s clothing _anywhere_.

 

Stan looks as though he’s about to speak, but he falls silent just before the restroom door opens again.

 

They’re still looking at one another, and Richie cocks an eyebrow and smirks mischievously, wondering how hard he’s gonna have to push to make _Stan_ struggle to keep quiet. It’s usually difficult to get Stan to vocalise his pleasure at all, but by now, Richie knows all the right buttons to push, and oh, boy, is he gonna push ‘em.

 

He starts off slow, just by kissing at Stan’s thighs, and his hips. He runs his hands up to his waist, and onto the small of his back, and then down onto his ass, squeezing and kneading with his fingers. Stan reaches down to take off Richie’s glasses, folds them, and carefully tuck them into his shirt pocket against his chest.

 

Stan’s features are a little blurry, now, even this close (man, he has shitty eyesight), but the blur is soft, and it doesn’t really bother him. He teasingly rubs his ringed thumb over the tip of Stan’s cock through his brand-name briefs, and snaps at the waistband.

 

The thing about Richie, though, is that he doesn’t do teasing. And that’s not for want of trying; he’d love to be able to rile people up until they were begging him for a good, hard fuck, but that’s just not his style. Mostly, he’s impatient. And, perhaps more importantly, Richie _enjoys_ giving people pleasure. He enjoys it so much that he can’t ever bear to delay it. Right off the bat, he offers his love fully…fast, rough, and thorough. And that’s never going to change.

 

Which is why, before this new ‘intruder’ upon their sexual exploits has even left the next cubicle, Stan has been rid of his underwear, has his foot on Richie’s shoulder, and Richie’s tongue so deep inside him that even Stan looks light-headed.

 

Richie’s great at giving head, sure, but if there’s one thing he’s even better at, it’s eating ass, and he’s never about to let a talent like that go to waste.

 

And there’s certainly nothing held back, or teasing, about the way he does this, either. With each long, firm swipe of Richie’s tongue, Stan shudders silently, his fingers tighten in Richie’s shoulders, and there’s a visible tension in the muscles of his abdomen. Stan’s going to be a tough nut to crack, for sure, though; if this were Eddie, he’d already be a moaning, whining, incoherent mess by now with Richie’s tongue that far up his ass, but Stan is far more reserved, and it’s gonna take some work. Richie finds that oddly exciting.

 

Stan tastes a little sweeter than the others. In Richie’s experience, the asshole just tastes like any other part of the body of the person it belongs to. As for Stan, he’s impossibly clean, nearly always cold, and rarely sweats, so his skin never really has that salty tang that others do. And he’s smooth, _really_ smooth, like, not-a-single-hair-in-sight kinda smooth. Eddie shaves, so does Bev, and maybe Bill (a little less enthusiastically), Richie, Mike and Ben are more ‘I’ll trim to keep stuff neat, but that’s enough’, kind of guys, but Stan gets waxed professionally; legs, underarms, nether-regions, even his forearms, the whole shebang. He’s pretty hairy naturally, but there are very few people who even know that. Stan doesn’t like body hair.

 

Personally, body hair doesn’t bother Richie at all. In fact, he thinks it can be pretty sexy. But even he has to admit that a clean, smooth hole is a much more attractive option to stick your tongue into.

 

Richie pulls back just long enough to suck a hickey into the inner of Stan’s thigh, tucked up right by his groin; he knows that Stan will allow one, there, where it can only ever be seen by a select few people. But then he feels Stan’s foot press against his shoulder, and both hands grip hard into his hair as Stan pushes on his head, manoeuvres him back down where he wants him, and Richie continues to covetously kiss and suck and lick at him like a fucking dog.

 

It’s more than worth the potential shame of being on his knees on the floor of a bathroom stall, with his mouth on an ass (not that Richie actually feels any kind of shame over that, whatsoever), just for the way he can start to feel Stan’s thigh press against the side of his head, his fingers clutching against his scalp, and the lift and tilt of his hips towards him. Not to mention that gorgeous little hitch in Stan’s breath every time Richie’s tongue sinks into him.

 

 _God_ he wishes they were alone, right now, so that he could talk, tell Stan how good he tastes, how beautiful he is, and how well he’s gonna fuck him. He imagines the way Stan might shudder and arch his back, if he did, and feels himself quickly getting hard again. But that dumb fucker outside the cubicle has been washing his hands for the past two minutes, at least. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Richie thinks bitterly, ‘Even Eddie doesn’t wash his hands that thoroughly.’

 

And here, Richie assumed he’d be the one smugly hoping the guy would stay, just so he could watch Stan struggle with his self-control, but Stan is still almost completely silent. When Richie looks up at him, he has this really soft, relaxed look on his face, pressed back against the cubicle wall, curls all splayed out elegantly behind him; he looks fucking blissed out. But Richie is finding himself getting more and more frustrated at being unable to work with all of his god-given gifts, and by that, he means his voice, for sure.

 

The second that slow-hand-washing douchebag leaves, Richie spits on his fingers, and twists and pushes the middle one into Stan right up to the knuckle. He hears Stan’s breath quiver, and smirks as he looks up at him, wasting no time in pumping it in and out fast and hard.

 

“You like that?”

 

Stan doesn’t reply, but Richie sees him trying to steel himself, as though he wants to, probably to make some sarcastic remark, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth and attempting to steady his gradually faltering breath.

 

“You _do_ , huh?” Richie teases, knowing, very smugly, that he’s quickly loosening the foundation of Stan’s self-control, “What’s the matter, Stanley? Cat got your tongue?”

 

Stan’s back arches up toward him a little, angling the movement of his finger, which Richie only slows occasionally to twist or curve, to press and rub in all the right places, aided by Stan. Every time he gets even close to his prostate, he sees Stan freeze up a little, his brow knotted in anticipation, but every time, Richie moves his fingers away again. He knows exactly where it is, and how to get to it, even if Stan hadn’t instructed and scolded him countless times before. That’s one of the many reasons Richie finds it so entertaining to keep pretending he hasn’t got a clue.

 

“Y-you’re so annoying.”

 

Richie delights in the crack in Stan’s voice.

 

“What’s that? You want me to _stop_?”

 

Richie can practically _feel_ Stan’s irritation. He doesn’t respond. But that’s how Richie knows he’s got him, because Stan _always_ has to have the last word.

 

“You want me to stop, Stanley?”

 

Richie starts to withdraw his finger, but Stan grabs for his wrist.

 

“ _No!_ ”

 

“No?” Richie smirks, admiring the desperation in Stan’s eyes, “Tell me what you want.”

 

“More.”

 

“More?” Richie slowly gets to his feet, now, pressing their bodies together, and pulling Stan’s raised leg against his waist. His finger sinks back in again, but its thrusts are slow, now. “Tell me how much you love me, and maybe I’ll give you what you want.”

 

They’re eye-to-eye, now, even though Richie’s taller. Stan doesn’t shy away, though.

 

“ _Richie_.”

“Yes, darling?”

 

“Richie, I swear…” Stan’s trying so hard to keep his voice steady, it’s almost tragic.

 

“What’s the matter, baby?” Richie knows he’s got such an annoying smirk on his face, he’s actually genuinely shocked that Stan hasn’t hit him.

 

To Richie’s surprise, though, for all his obvious irritation, Stan, instead, slides his hands up into Richie’s hair, and he’s staring into his eyes so wantonly that Richie is hit with this pulsing wave of arousal that makes his head swim.

 

“Is there something wrong with your other fingers?” The way he says it is half way between a sexy hiss and a trembling mess.

 

“ _Oh_?” Richie chuckles softly, and he draws his finger out right to the very tip, just so that he can press it back in alongside another. Stan’s a pro; there’s little resistance, and what is there feels comfortable, pliant, even without lube.

 

Stan lets out a soft, satisfied noise, and his head tips back against the cubicle wall.

 

“ _Fuck_ , you look so good.” Richie whispers, his impish playfulness quickly melting into affectionate lust, as he mouths at the underside of Stan’s jaw, and the front of his neck, feeling his pulse beat heavy against his parted lips. He can feel Stan’s fingers in his hair, tangled deep into his curls, occasionally scraping along his scalp, pulling at him, urging. Richie knows what those fingers are saying, he has to know, because Stan won’t ever ask. And he _definitely_ won’t beg.

 

‘ _Deeper. More. Please.’_

Richie’s fingers are pulsing in and out slowly, now, but each inward press is so deep it physically can’t go any further. And Richie has long, thin fingers, with nails bitten so far down there’s no such thing as a sharp edge; these fingers were _made_ to be sunk into a tight, warm body, they were _made_ to find a G-spot, or a prostate. And they certainly can. And they certainly _do_ , curling inside Stan’s body and stroking briefly across that solid little cluster of hypersensitive nerves that can even bring Stan to his knees.

 

Richie feels Stan’s body tremble against him, watches the strain in his throat as practised willpower battles natural impulse. He can almost hear that fucking delicious sound Stan’s fighting against; just a little more…

Another intruder enters the restroom, and Richie’s so close to marching out of the cubicle and physically manhandling this person back out through the door, it’s crazy.

 

Well, it doesn’t matter, anyway. They’ve passed the point of no return, now. Richie’s fully hard again; he’s eager to get inside that tight, wet heat that’s enveloping his fingers, and nothing’s gonna stop him, now.

 

He leans in close to Stan’s ear, forehead against the wooden wall, lips brushing against his earlobe, as he starts moving his fingers fast and hard again, trying to keep his arm free to manoeuvre without hitting anything and making any noise.

 

“ _I wanna fuck you so bad.”_ He whispers, as softly as possible, breath hot in Stan’s ear.

 

Stan’s sinking against the wall a little, now, and Richie can hear his breath coming in short, sharp, but very quiet gasps into Richie’s neck. One of his arms goes tight around Richie’s shoulders, gripping at him for support as he’s basically assaulted.

 

The forced silence, the secrecy of it, may be irritating, but the tension…the desperation...is so fucking erotic it’s driving both of them _insane_.

 

Richie’s only adding to it, though, always one to add fuel to a fire, he pushes in a third finger. He knows perfectly well that Stan can take it, that’s not an issue, but that stretch, the _burn_ , that’s the kind of thing that drives Stan crazy; a little bit of pain. Instantly, Stan’s looking for some kind of relief from the need to cry out, something to ground him, and he finds it in the crook of Richie’s neck, where he buries his face.

 

Then he bites him.

 

Hard.

 

So hard, that Richie curses.

 

Loudly.

 

They both freeze up, listening intently, until they hear a voice from outside the cubicle, and someone knocking lightly against it.

 

“Hey, you okay in there?”

 

Richie’s reaction is quick, and sounds completely believable, which is lucky, considering that Stan’s slumped, light-headed, against him, and still has his face buried into Richie’s neck, lips hovering over the bruising welts he just created.

 

“Yeah, I’m fine! Just stubbed my toe against the bottom of the crapper!”

 

The other man laughs.

 

“Oh, right! Well, just checking.”

 

“Yeah, thanks!”

 

They hear the door open, and then close again, and Richie chuckles against the side of Stan’s face.

 

“That really fucking hurt, Stanley.”

 

“Good,” Stan groans, in muffled response, tongue grazing the sore marks on Richie’s neck, and eliciting a hiss and a shudder.

 

There’s still a fair bit of amusement in Richie’s voice, but there’s also a little venom, “Holy _shit_ , you’re asking for it.”

 

“Then why won’t you _give it to me_?” Stan bites back, teeth pressing against Richie’s skin, once more, grazing, almost as though in warning.

 

“ _Fuck._ ” Richie withdraws his fingers slowly, gazing down between them, admiring the way Stan’s hips lift, following the movement, feeling the loss, “Okay, c’mon.” He pats at Stan’s ass, trying to encourage him to jump up.

 

“Are you kidding?”

 

“I can lift you, c’mon. The wall’s taking some of the weight. It’s fine, I’ve done this with Eddie before.”

 

“Eddie’s almost a foot shorter than I am,” Stan growls.

 

“Yeah but he’s basically made of nothing but muscle. Have you ever tried to lift him?” Richie sniggers.

 

“No,” Stan sighs a little, “You’d better make this worth it.”

 

Richie slides both hands down firmly under Stan’s hips, “I got you,” he pats at him again, indicating when to lift his other leg, and Stan does, clamping his thighs against Richie’s waist, his expression softening when both of Richie’s arms wind around his, and he comes in for a kiss.

 

The kiss they share this time is wet, passionate, and shortly becomes breathless, as Richie presses Stan up hard against the wall, and starts grinding him into it, connecting their hips, teasing what’s about to come. Stan’s falling for it, though, getting more and more riled by the second, sucking a heavy breath in through his teeth on a particularly hard rut, and sliding his hands up either side of Richie’s face, watching him with such intensity it’s almost frightening.

 

“ _Fuck me_.” He commands, rather aggressively.

 

Richie feels those words like a heavy blow to the head.

 

“Say it again.”

 

There's a brief pause; Stan doesn't like being told what to do. But it seems that, this time at least, his body has won over his brain.

 

“ _Fuck me.”_ He almost groans it out, the second time.

 

 _God_ , it sounds just as good. Even better, in fact, than the first time. Richie loses his concentration, for a while, but that scary, animal look in Stan’s dark eyes, is enough to drag him back to his senses.

 

Richie shifts back just enough that he can get one of his hands between them, to pull himself free from his trousers, again. He doesn’t have a condom. He and Stan rarely use them, anymore. With one arm tight around Stan’s body, and the other between his thighs, Richie lines up the now throbbing, still-wet tip of his cock, and slides into Stan in one slow, easy movement.

 

Stan’s back arches up from the wall, shoulders still bracing him against it, as he hisses and strokes his hands across Richie’s chest, and his arms, and up and down his neck, fingers clasping and releasing against it impulsively.

 

Right off the bat, Richie sets his hips in motion, a steady, middling rhythm, feeling Stan’s feet locking together against the base of his spine. Lips connect, and part, connect, and part, between Richie’s lustful expletives, and countless exaggerated compliments, which are having a surprisingly powerful effect.

 

Stan is watching Richie in a shockingly obedient manner, hanging off his every word, hands on his face again, now. His fingers blindly entwine in Richie’s thick hair, as his thumbs brush his cheeks, and graze his lips, and feel the gentle ridges of his bottom teeth, and the wide, flat surface of his tongue. Richie kisses the palm of his hand, and then tucks his head in to catch him in another kiss, brief enough that Stan doesn’t have the time to bite.

 

“ _Is this worth it, Stanley? Do you like getting fucked up against the wall like this?”_ Richie punctuates his speech with a hard rut, hard enough that Stan’s hips knock back against the wall, with a fairly loud _slap_.

 

Stan groans, loudly this time, nails scratching at Richie’s shoulders, and Richie groans with him.

 

“ _Oh, fuck_ ,” Richie watches Stan’s lips, wordlessly begging that same sound to escape, again.

 

His legs are straining a little under Stan’s weight; he may be slim, and light, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s six feet tall, and Richie is _not_ a strong guy. The feeling of intimacy, though, in having Stan wrapped around him, both arms and legs, the animal nature of lifting him up like that while he fucks him, is intoxicating, and it’s encouraging a strength in Richie that he never knew he had.

 

“ _You feel so good, Stan…so fucking good…”_

Richie feels Stan’s thighs squeeze against him, as he picks up the tempo, and he just _knows_ he’s rocking into a good spot, that Stan’s trying to hold him where he is. He presses his forehead to Stan’s, and desirously wonders at the flutter of his heavy eyelids, the pleasured furrow in his brow, that beautiful, ringlet curl on his forehead that always falls into Stan’s face, the one he normally neatly tucks back, so that it can’t, but that is now being ignored, and is twisting and intertwining with Richie’s own, wiry locks between them.

 

“ _Fuck me you’re so fucking beautiful._ ”

 

Stan’s staring into Richie’s eyes lovingly, now, _adoringly_ , and this quiet, almost timid whimper escapes his throat, and it makes Richie’s insides twist with more than just ecstasy. He reaches for Stan’s completely neglected erection between them, but Stan quickly shakes his head, and pushes his hand away. That’s no surprise; Stan can _always_ finish hands-free.

 

“ _Are you close?_ ”

 

Stan nods this time, and so does Richie.

 

“ _Okay…okay…_ ”

 

He braces his hands against Stan’s hips, at either side, so that he can _really_ move.

 

And he does.

 

He starts fucking him so hard that the sound of their skin slapping together is echoing around the bathroom sharply, but the idea that anyone walking in at this point would very obviously hear them and know what they’re doing, doesn’t even cross his mind. Even if that happened, Richie doesn’t think he could stop. He’s getting close, too.

 

Far more important to Richie, though, is the way Stan tips his head back, the way his hands scrabble for a hold around Richie’s shoulders, the way his eyelids flicker closed, and his body quivers all the way up his spine.

 

“ _Yeah._ ” Stan moans out the word so quietly, that Richie almost doesn’t hear it over the sound of their hips colliding.

 

 _Holy mother of shit_ he’s so glad he did hear it, though.

 

“ _Yeah?”_

Richie finds himself transfixed on Stan’s face as he watches his climax unfold, first appearing as a deep pink flush across the tops of his cheeks, then in the parting of his lips in a small, silent, ‘O’, then in this beautiful, desperate groan that nearly forces Richie over the edge, too. He can’t finish inside Stan, though, not this time. Not when they still have to get home, and Stan’s wearing some of his most expensive clothes.

 

Speaking of which, Richie hastily pushes Stan’s Calvin Klein shirt off his abdomen, milliseconds before Stan comes, hard, across his own stomach and chest. Richie slows the rock of his hips to more of a gentle roll, as he strokes at Stan’s bare sides, maintaining his orgasm at its peak, until he’s utterly spent.

 

And then he stops still, because he knows that if he keeps going, he’s done. And by done, he means ‘dead’, because if he comes inside him, right now, Stan’s gonna fucking murder him with his bare hands.

 

He doesn’t have to worry about it for too long, though, because Stan’s post-climax bliss doesn’t seem to be incapacitating enough to stop him from lowering himself down, and sliding to his knees on the bathroom floor, looking like the picture of sin as he glances up at Richie, parts his lips, and offers up his tongue. Richie doesn’t need any encouragement. A few swift jerks of his fist later, and he’s coming into Stan’s mouth for the second time that evening.

 

This time, after Richie’s climax has more than reached its end, Stan swallows, before finally dropping back against the cubicle wall. He untucks his legs from underneath him, breathing heavily, chest rising and falling visibly hard, eyes glazed with relaxed satisfaction. He watches Richie, as he sinks down the wall beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and their heads slowly nestle together. The silence in the restroom, now, is only punctuated by their mingled, panting breaths, and Richie’s quiet laughter.

 

“Was it good for you?”

 

He hears Stan snigger softly, but that’s his only response.

 

Richie nuzzles against the side of Stan’s head, kissing his ear, his cheek, and his temple, before resting against him, again.

 

“I love you, Stan.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

Richie looks at him, eyebrows raised, and mouth wide open in mock offence, until Stan begins to laugh.

 

It’s a rare, genuine Stanley Uris laugh, warm, infectious, slightly feminine and giggly.

 

“I love you, too, Rich.”


End file.
